


Your Protector

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, But mostly fluff, Developing Relationship, Emotionally Constipated Psychopaths, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV First Person, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian is tragically injured in a way that will cripple him forever. He has some issues to work through, but he finds that Moriarty can be accommodating when he chooses to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written from Sebastian's POV.  
> Additional tags / warnings may be added for later chapters.
> 
> Update 7/13: After a lot of consideration, I have decided to abandon this work. I lost all unpublished progress thanks to a harddrive failure, and since then I have not felt inspired to continue. Many apologies.

Adrenaline soaring, my back was against his. I can only describe the event as a business meeting gone horribly wrong. I was to be Jim's business-partner-slash-backup-in-disguise, and while Moriarty smooth-talked his way through most of it, he fucked it all up and the end and flat-out denied the company's proposal (something that went over my humble head, and I frequently nodded when my _'partner'_ made a point). From there, the gang of thugs that called themselves businessmen seemed to quadruple in number.

We were outnumbered. Moriarty had me prepare for this, obviously—my men stormed the building the second things got out of control. Shots were fired from both sides while we turned to make our escape. It was a fault of judgment, perhaps my own—but I knew, at least, it was my responsibility to keep the man at my side out of harm's way, no matter the cost. 

Moriarty made a dash for the exit with me hot on his heels, brandishing my own weapon, but we were caught in the crossfire. To my absolute terror, my keen eye spotted an enemy gun, his aim fixed at my superior's head.

I do believe that I flew through mid-air that day, tackling my boss and—ungracefully so—knocking him off his feet. I would pay for that later, but at least he was unharmed now.

The deafening bang of gunfire flooded my ears and I knew it, in the microsecond before it hit me, that I would not make it out of this unscathed. I simply had no idea just how bad this was going to end up. 

A projectile— _bullet,_ I correctly assumed—hit me in the right eye. My entire skull seemed to take the shot, however. To say that I am pain-tolerant would typically be a vast understatement, but the agony I felt was overwhelming. I could feel the sound ripping through my vocal chords more than I could hear myself scream. I was too late in cocking my revolver, for I was blinded by the spatter of my own blood in my eyes. The world beyond red and pain was a literal blur. 

My consciousness was fading fast. Moriarty must have made a quick escape— _he must have._ In my defeat, I allowed myself that much, for his safety to be my dying concern. The ground disappeared from under my feet just then. I was out before I hit the floor.

 

* * *

 

There is no afterlife waiting for a man like me, I am certain of that. But when I regained consciousness, I briefly wondered if I was dead. Couldn't feel my body, at first. Seconds went by, although the passage of time was still a non-concept to me, and I awakened further to a throbbing skull _(shit, still alive)_ , but in far less agony than I was before. 

_"Moriarty,"_ croaked the first word out of my mouth. A request. a demand. My first coherent thought, tested out on a voice I wasn't sure I had.

The criminal himself could attest to it, for he, too, existed in this space, wherever we were. I heard a distant voice—it was that sweet Irish lull. It spoke, "quiet, love," and I had to see it to believe it was true. 

It took a bloody age for my eyes to adjust to the damn florescent lights above. The place was a shithole. My superior's outline—well, multiple outlines—floated into my narrow field of vision. Moriarty loomed over the bed.

Yes, I realized. I was lying in a bed. 

"Wha' happen?" I mumbled weakly. Other than the dive I took, a lot of pain and panic, all inside some fuddled awareness of a vacant consciousness, I didn't remember shit.

Boss clicked his tongue. "What did I just say, Sebastian?"—oh, my full first name—"I'm alive. You're not dead. And, if you try to move, I will not hesitate to make it so that you cannot."

I heaved a sigh. The overwhelming stench of rubbing alcohol and medicine filled my nostrils. Repulsive. I wrinkled my nose and as if his criminal mind could read my thoughts, he began to shed some light on the current situation. 

"You just came out of surgery," said he, "As you have probably already gathered, you were shot. The bullet entered through your right eye, and lucky for you, came out above your ear. If it had been just a little higher, or lower, then....well, you know, don't you?"

It was if my superior's words could conjure pain as effectively as the med cocktail in my system could suppress it. I remember holding my head. I pushed through it, straining. "What about you?" I asked.

Another few clicks of the tongue. "We are currently talking about _you,_ are we not?" I nodded. "I thought so. You're—" a pause. Moriarty typically never worried about using the right words, but momentarily found himself groping for them in the vastness of his mind. it didn't really help. There was just no gentle way of putting it, so he didn't try. "Half-blind, Moran."

A heavy silence encompassed all things, then. I didn't need to hear the words my boss said next. I fully understood the severity the outcome. I knew that my vision was permanently impaired—how the fuck could it not be?—not only in the peripheral sense, but most importantly, my depth perception was gone. Gone forever. And, I was fully aware of what that all meant. I did believe my heart was literally breaking—that's what it felt like. Bullet shot straight through the center. I was nothing more than damaged goods, then. I recalled Moriarty's threat on the day I met him, and the constant little reminders since, slipped into conversation or scattered about to remind me, before I left the flat to do a job, to casually remind me that he was serious. I never took anything he said with a grain of salt. Genuine or not, if the consulting criminal said it to me, it was, without doubt or hesitation, completely true. 

In the room, Moriarty stood. Clearly, he was prepared to walk out the door. His next course of action would be to have someone dispose of the crippled, second-in-command, once loyal bodyguard. I had let him down enough that he would not even bother to kill me himself. I was sure of it—but then Moriarty was back in my periphery, and I felt the sudden burn of narcotic as it entered my veins through the IV stuck in my arm.

Moriarty reseated himself. He had no intention of leaving. Reasons why fled my my mind, followed by a welcomed consciousness.

 

* * *

 

I must have been moved while I had been unconscious, which was just as well. Awake now, and much more comfortable than I had been in the warehouse-made-hospital bed. I was also moderately-to-severely concussed, apparently, which seemed like a papercut proportionate to my eye injury. I kept my eyes shut for a little while, content to exist in the haze before letting in the world and all of its horrid sensations.

Moriarty was beside me again. For how long, I had no clue. He knew when I awoke, evidently by the book was be holding whenever I dared to open my eyes. I watched him scan the text with vacant eyes. The thickness of the remaining pages differed each time I regained consciousness, like the man had picked a random page to start from the moment my waking breaths became uneven.

"Where'm I?" I grumbled, but abandoned the thought when my question went unanswered. Of course, he would be livid, and I felt a pang of guilt. "I....will pack my things. As soon as 'm able, sir, but if I need to leave right now, I'll catch a cab. On my way out."

That seemed to get Moriarty's attention, but he didn't look up from the book he was pretending to read. He spoke in his bored drawl, "What are you on about?"

"I've exhausted my usefulness to you, sir. And I understand the consequences of failing you. I shoulda got you out of there myself, but I....couldn't."

The book smacked the bedside table so loud that I flinched. I tried to sit upright, pushing myself up off the well-cushioned bed, but Moriarty was quick to grab my wrist, his signature bone-breaking grip bearing down and his voice sinking an octave or two. "Of course you couldn't handle it, you fucking twat. You got shot in the head. Now, lie down before I break your fucking arm." That was all he had to say, apparently.

It was an order, and although confused, I obeyed without hesitation.


	2. Chapter 2

I found myself napping a lot. I slept for days, but not without drifting to the very surface of my subconscious, enough to notice the basics of my surroundings, enough to be bothered by the lights and sounds that were too much, but not enough to remember or realize where I was. I felt restless and exhausted, forced to sleep by anesthetics and never getting the quality of sleep that my body needed to recover.

In the time I was actually awake, I worried near constantly. I did not yet know the extent of my boss' injuries, if he had sustained any, and if not, how the hell did he get out of there? I put his life in danger. I was unable to see to it that he go out safely. I failed him—and still, Moriarty had forced me, threatened me to stay so that I wouldn't end up dead in the street. I couldn't understand. He sat by me, talked to me about other things like jobs that had previously been 'none of my business.' He even doted on me at times--changed my bandages (more frequently than what was really necessary), brought me dinner (that he actually allowed me to eat in bed), and pumped me full of painkillers and sedatives when he thought I needed them (which he was usually off by entirely one direction or the other).

No doubt I was grateful. But I half expected the guy would fucking skin me then, instead of playing around like he―like, whatever this was. But days passed and the consulting criminal was still spending quite a lot of time at my bedside. Surely, he had other things to attend to? I let myself think about that for a while, and I came to an entirely different conclusion. _Oh,_ this place smelled like home, and I quickly realized that the bed I was in must be in Moriarty's room, judging from the size of it and the impeccable surroundings. I didn't ask why, and just assumed that my boss couldn't stand the imperfect state my own room was in (maybe there was a pair of shoes left outside the closet, or even a single tie hanging on a bedpost. _Disgusting,_ yeah?)

 

* * *

Jim had not been taking on many new projects, but there were a few that he was too invested in to quit. I dragged myself to the shower one morning while he left to 'take care of some things'. I didn't ask.

I have yet failed to mention that I wore a thick, medical eyepatch over my damaged eye. I assumed it was sewn shut because I couldn't open it and there was resistance when I tried. I knew there was no point to it, though. Moriarty had confirmed that they removed the eye from its socket. The stitches were for healing.

I peeled back the eyepatch and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I flinched. It was the first time I had a proper look at the wound. The swelling had gone down and the blood and ooze was gone. I had seen far worse in my day, but it was still jarring. The implication of what the injury meant for my future made my stomach twist in knots.

It reminded me that Jim and I needed to have a chat. Anticipation rose in my chest whenever the thought crossed my mind. The idea of the confrontation scared the shit out of me.

I showered, dressed and replaced the eyepatch. Jim hadn't assigned me any work, so I bummed around the flat until mid-afternoon. I was in the living area when I heard it. Footsteps on the stairs. I was on my guard. Whoever was coming here at this time better have a proper excuse, since certainly, Moriarty would not schedule an appointment for when he wouldn't be there...

But it's Jim himself who walks through the door. His clothes aren't bloody, which is always a good sign. I can relax. "Evenin', boss. Home early, huh? How was the job?"

Jim flopped down in his armchair opposite me with an exaggerated sigh. "Everyone was an idiot and the place was a mess. Next question, please." He swatted the air, obviously bored of the work subject. So, I tossed him a subject he wouldn't get bored of.

"Yeah, fine. How come you haven't disposed of me yet? Just haven't gotten around to it, in all your free time?" It was out of desperation that I was running my mouth. I couldn't hold my shit together if he shrugged off a direct question like this. It appeared that I instantly struck a nerve. The criminal bolts from his seat as soon as he'd taken it, snapping up straight like a board.

"Well excuse my fucking hospitality!" he exclaimed, using that voice of his that spans all octaves in his range. His mouth hung open in...surprise? Was he really offended? I didn't fucking know. He starts waving his arms about, but I interjected before he could go on.

"Quit fucking with me! You don't have a sympathetic bone in your body for anyone but yourself. You always follow through on your plans when it comes to threats and punishment. If you're doing this out of pity, I need to know. If you _fucking pity me—_ "

The prick interrupted before I could finish. "Baby, no. _No, no, no._ You're killing me. I thought you would understand! 'Disposing' of you, as you put it would be," he shook his head, "So dull. So, _so_ predictable."

I didn't realize I had been clenching my fists until blood trickled out under my nails. I snorted, regardless--"So that's it, is it? Ha. Not surprising in the least, actually."

Jim pulled a face, a pout, for reasons I still can't ascertain. This was what I knew: he was there, in that head of his, and the words were carefully calculated though they slid off his silver tongue with ease. I couldn't shake the feeling that Jim felt distant, somehow--Insincere? I don't suppose that makes a bit of sense, since all he does is lie, but I believe what I'm trying to say is that Moriarty felt uncomfortable with the fact that he couldn't fool me. He knew it, and yet, he did not understand why.

He was quiet for a moment, just knitting his brow while pacing the floor. I clasped my hands in front of me and leaned on my elbows. "'S bullshit. I reckon you'd loved to kill me yourself."

Moriarty stopped his tracks, and spins on his heel to face me, his eyebrows are quirked curiously, but he's definitely glaring—"I beg your pardon?"—and if the inflection in his voice meant anything, then several ideas concerning my violent death were likely simmering behind those flickering eyes.

He had to be dramatic, but my point was made. "You heard me just fine, boss. You can't wait for the day you get your hands around my neck or a pistol up my arse."

"Shut up," he hissed, warning me, but I went on.

"Like that one, yeah? A damn shame you thought of it first. Y' know what I think, boss? I think I know the reason you stitched me up. You wanted to play a part in saving my life, since you couldn't properly take it."

And in three, two, one.... _click._

" _ENOUGH!_ " he exploded. The walls shook and I went silent. There was only enough pressing of this man's buttons he could take before he went absolutely batshit. My heart thundered and my legs shook. I readied myself to take a blow if one came at me. I saw the fire in his eyes and my strongest instinct was to submit to him, but I steeled myself. I might have been the only living person who could attest to getting just close enough, without tipping him over that edge. I intended, then, to keep my record.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do," he continued, a little calmer. "I could hire another, yes. I _should_ hire another, because I have _so many_ of the world's best shots at my disposal these days! But let me tell you something, 'Bastian—" he presses down on my chair, all snarling and spitting poison and gnashing teeth—" _I don't fucking want to._ "

He released my chair and stood looking out of one large window. He focused most of his rage on the people in the city below, no doubt imagining chaos, flames running rampant, bombs going off and decapitating bodies, heads rolling to burn in the gutters with the rest of the filth. I don't need to elaborate.

He began to speak, his voice was barely audible, and I strained my ears to pick up the last few words. "You took a bullet in the face for me, you _spectacular fucking imbecile._ And....no one has ever done that before."

I didn't believe what I was hearing. Had James Moriarty turned human overnight? It was impossible, but the way he looked at me just then was....pleading.

"Are you all right, sir?" I had to ask. He whipped his head back towards the city.

"I'm fine. Bloody fantastic. Now, do get out of my sight."

I did what I was told and retreated to the bedroom. I lay in bed because my head started to throb, but I couldn't sleep. Moriarty was knocking about the flat, and once in a while I would hear him cursing in frustration, or glass breaking, or things being thrown. I worried about the condition of the flat. I worried about my boss more.

I idolized the man no less after seeing him at his worst. It wasn't as if he was a patient person, as his clients might see him as, he simply has no tolerance for failure. A man of his power shouldn't ever have to. But when it came down to matters of the heart, problems he could not solve by killing the people responsible for them, Moriarty's frustration knew no bounds. He had a bit of an explosive temper that I had witnessed many times, where he would shout and kick and ultimately "go off the deep end."

I worried about his mental state. It was just as much my job to protect him against himself as it was to protect him from others. I finally heard him settle down, so I relaxed a bit, decided to stay put to rest my head.

I made a mental list of things James Moriarty didn't do. I thought it would be much more helpful than memorizing the seemingly infinite list of things that man was willing to do.

Near the top of the list was this: James Moriarty did not get attached. It seemed. in fact, that he lacked the ability to do so and always had. I don't believe that his chest cavity hadn't ached from time to time, whatever it was that ailed him, but the thing that was truly amazing was how he would never act upon it. What was more, he didn't seem bothered by it, giving the impression of a stone cold statue of a man. A man everyone feared, having more to do with that reason than anything else.

I, for one, envied his resolve, if it might, in fact, be that which kept him calm.

I lay there in the dark, and I don't know if or when I fell asleep, but when I came around, Jim was there beside me, curled up on top the quilt.

Ah. My first scrap of evidence seemed to have flown out the window.


	3. Chapter 3

"'Morning, sunshine," Jim's singsong voice piped up in the darkness, despite the night sky being nowhere near sunrise.

"...Boss?" The proximity startled me, and I was on guard. However, his whole demeanor seemed different than before. He stretched out like a damn cat and leaned his chin on his wrist, twisting to face me. "That's 'Jim' to you right now, sweetie. Oh, and before you ask me what I'm doing here? This is my bed, remember."

"Right." I couldn't stop myself from laughing. I liked this playful Jim, whose scowl I could practically feel, though I could barely make out the features of his face in the dim light. The bed shifted and I felt him press himself against me, eliminating what personal space I had. I had never seen him display affection to another living being that wasn't part of a rouse, wasn't meant to get him something he wanted. He was sentimental about nothing, and many social cues that I didn't give a second thought about seemed to go straight over his head. I presumed it would be safe to say that snuggling belonged on the list of things James Moriarty did not do, but I was wrong again.

There was a nervous air about him. I don't want to say skittish, but he approached me as if I were a hot stove. He was possibly still worked up a bit from our row earlier that evening. But he pressed heavy against my side, as if to seek refuge from that tension. 

Comforting psychopaths was not in my job description, but greater than my discomfort was the need to please him. I held up the edge of the blanket invitingly and said, when he didn't move, "Moriar— _Jim,_ whoever the ruddy hell you are—get under here, you incredible tosspot."

My boss huffed and, despite his attempt to stay calm, cold, distant—he was positively flustered. He snatched the corner of the blanket from my hand and practically dove under it, as if the faster he moved, the less he had to endure. He curled up and mumbled a very nonthreatening "fuck off, Moran," his face pressed into my chest. 

We lay there for a while. The silence was good; meant I didn't have to speak fancy or nothin', but I couldn't have been prepared for what came next had I known ahead of time. Jim poked his head out from under the blanket and looked at me. I couldn't read the emotion in his eyes. It felt quite like a dream in which the faces of ghouls became distorted and spoke with familiar voices.

"I hate you. I cannot fucking stand being around you. You fuck me up, and I don't know why I keep you around," His voice was strained, like he was forcing something unnatural past his lips. Something that had stored away but not properly kept, beneath all the other stuff that made up Jim's little world, collecting grime in the wheelwork and barely recognizable for what it once was. 

I was floored, silent. Those words were as close to a confession that I ever got from him. I searched out his hand, but he slapped mine away. "I saw you get shot, Seb. I saw you go down and your blood was _everywhere_ and I couldn't think. They had to drag me out of that fucking building because—"

"—because you're a fuckin' idiot," I interrupted, finding my voice again. "Protecting you is _my_ job, yeah? I can't do that with you're tryin' to get back in there and save me."

"Out of line, Moran," he scolded, " But I did save you."

I snorted. "At the hospital? Yeah, I never said thanks."

"Well, don't. I don't want to hear it." He averted his gaze and I pressed him still.

"You didn't save all of me, though." My voice fell to barely above a whisper. "Not the important parts."

Then he slapped me. 

And then the same hand was stroking my cheek before my brain even registered the pain. He traced my jawline with a steady gentleness I could only assume he had reserved for dissecting things. Fingers ghosted over my empty socket. "I saved enough of you, Bastian—" he threw a leg over my torso and pinned me to the bed, " _—and I still own all that's left of you._ "

"I know, babe. God, I know," I whispered, feeling more subservient than ever. I would do anything for this man. I would give him my remaining eye if he asked for it. I would gouge it out myself, just for him. 

"You will continue to work for me," he began, unbuttoning my shirt as he spoke. "You will remain second in command—but don't think for one second that this gives you any new privileges. You will simply return to your duties." He pushed my shirt open and sharp nails dug into my chest, over old scars. "As of this moment, your sick time is over. You will serve me 'round the clock, _soldier_ —" a bite to my shoulder, "—and tonight? Darling, you're going to _fuck me raw._ And that's an order." 

I couldn't mute the growl that rumbled deep in my throat. I shivered, licked my lips, and pounced. In a matter of seconds, I had flipped our positions so that I was kneeling over him. I tore at the buttons on his shirt with shaking hands—he had claimed me as his for the first time since the incident and those words repeated in my head. I nearly shuddered out loud; it had felt as if lightning struck through me, again and again. Letting his shirt fall open, I could feast my eyes on his pale chest and stomach—expanses of skin just begging to be marked and bruised. I wanted to tear the man to shreds, yes, this man whom I would give my life. I felt haunted. I had fallen into his orbit on the day we met, and I was stuck there still, his gravitational pull stronger than ever. 

He threw his arms around my neck and kissed me, if I could even call it that. He dragged me down and devoured me in the bloodiest exchange of tongues I had ever known. He plunged his tongue past my lips and all I could do was grind my mouth against his while he ripped me open and mapped out every square centimeter of my mouth and then some. I could feel how hard he was against my thigh. No doubt the fucker was enjoying the taste of my blood on his tongue. 

Once satisfied, or once he couldn't breathe, Jim pulled away, just barely, to whisper against my swollen lips, "You're still alive because I didn't give you permission to die."

I trust that in Jim's mind, sometimes, in his bouts of blind mania, he believed he was God. And, had he the actual ability to make a miracle happen, I might have believed it, too, that night. 

I gripped his hips, my fingers pressing into bones with the intention to bruise. He responded by slammed his hips into mine, coaxing moans from us both as our clothed erections met. Our legs became tangled and I bounced Jim on my knee for a bit, heard him keen and rut back against me. Soon— _very soon_ —I felt the pressure building up in the pit of my stomach. I wanted more, so much more, and I couldn't help but whimper, though, the burn of fabric against my prick was quickly becoming too much.

Jim whined impatiently, my cue to strip us both of our remaining clothes. "Make me come, baby," he pleaded. I knew better, though, than to think he was unguarded—this was just one of the little games Jim liked to play, and I knew that he was still very much in control despite his submissive demeanor. 

I hadn't finished undressing myself before he shoved a bottle of lube into my hands from god knows where. With the liquid spread generously over my fingers, I reached between us, slicking up my cock and then, without warning, eased a finger up Jim's arse. He sank down with a silent gasp, swallowing each digit at a pace that could only be painful. The greedy bastard took my fingers, one by one, and when I wasn't quick enough for his liking, he began to ride all three like a proper fucking porn star. 

I could have watched him twist and squirm all night, kept company by those little grunts of pleasure I coaxed out of him when I curled my fingers just the right way. Ever the impatient one, Jim had other plans. He pulled himself up off my fingers when he felt it was enough, and gripped my cock. 

" _Ah-ah,_ " I warned, closing my fist around his fingers. I'm sure he snarled at me, but no matter. I lined up my cock with his entrance, but before I let him sink down I demanded, "Tell me how you'd do it, babe, how you'd kill me."

Jim didn't skip a fucking beat. He barked a sharp laugh and feather-light fingers danced down my throat. "I would choke you, darling. Crush your throat with my bare bands."

" _Fuck._ " I thrust into him, but I didn't let him have it all. Not yet. Nothing could rival the intimacy felt during the act of asphyxiating another, or being asphyxiated oneself. "Tell me more," I growled, my heart threatening to beat right through my ribcage.

Moriarty hissed, obviously sharing my sentiments. "I want to take your breath away, in the most literal sense—" I let him sink down, and heard his voice jumped an octave, obviously struggling to keep his head on straight, "—b-because it's.... _mine_....doesn't belong to— _hahhh!_ "

Good to know we were on the same page. I tossed my head back and began to move, the heat and friction and fullness rendered us both barely capable of speech. He rode me fast and hard and I met him halfway with the steady buck of my hips. I could feel my own bones bruising with every new collision, and still, it wasn't enough.

"Keep talkin', baby," I rasped out, clawing desperately at his shoulders down to the small of his back. He hissed and when I felt the sticky wetness beneath my fingertips, I knew I had drawn blood. "How would you stop me from killin' you first?"

Jim's speech had deteriorated into a cacophony of grunts and mewls, but he didn't take long after that. He climaxed with held breath and a perfectly arched back, all skin stretched tight over sharp angles, and collapsed on my chest with a shudder that didn't fade. I realized he was actually laughing—an eerie, hollow rattling in his chest.

I continued to erratically thrust into him, my own climax just around the corner.  
He took a moment to catch his breath, but when he did, he spoke as if it was the plainest damn thing in the world, "I wouldn't have to. By the time I get around to taking your life, my love, you won't even try."

Between he combination of his muscles tensing around my cock and that solid threat sent straight to my groin, I came within seconds with his name on my lips, spilling out in waves inside him. I realize I had forgotten to ask, but he didn't seem to mind. He rolled off me, and I joined him in post-orgasmic bliss. 

Nothing of importance was said after that. Just our ragged breathing filled the empty space around us, and when I looked at Jim, resting contently on my chest, an idea hit me, seemingly out of nowhere.

In what felt like a bit of a foggy dream state, although I was conscious enough to remember, I thought about the day we first met. 

Within the hour, consulting criminal James Moriarty had been appalled and impressed by my bold tongue. His 'respect' earned me a succession of kicks to the chest, stomach and groin—of course the man fights dirty—before this soldier could even throw a punch. Although I was the target, and I had crumpled to the ground like a broken toy, the way he moved and executed those blows was beautiful and alarming, just like Moriarty himself. His body, compact and deadly, moved like ribbons across a dance floor when he fought, on the rare occasions when Boss had no choice but to get his pristine shoes dirty.

I felt like I had seen God that day. If such a thing exists, I have seen it, felt it, breathed it in like oxygen. I quickly decided that I would rather die by Moriarty's hand than live a life beyond the enlightened one we shared.

Eventually, I slipped from consciousness, feeling more relaxed than I could ever remember.


End file.
